


Pilgrim's Lane

by missunderstood88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Feels, Gen, Godric's Hollow, Grief/Mourning, Pilgrimage, Possibly a little bit fluffy, Post-War, remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missunderstood88/pseuds/missunderstood88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Before the war, before Him, it had been called Cottonfields, just Cottonfields.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilgrim's Lane

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago. Six years ago, actually. I decided to tidy it up and post it here.
> 
> This is one of my favourite things I've written, and I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> The idea, and the title, came from the name of a race horse.

** Pilgrims Lane **

Before the war, before Him, it had been called Cottonfields, just Cottonfields. No one knew why and no one had ever asked. It was a road that led out of the village, and was home to a majority of the town’s old age pensioners, and on occasion a young family starting out on their life together. Small cottages stood on either side of it of the road; six on the left, and seven on the right, and it was quiet. Most avoided using it lest they disturb the peace, and children knew enough of telling offs to stay well clear of it. It was a beautiful place.

  
There had been some excitement back in the eighties. A young family had moved in, and barely a week after, they had been killed. There had been an explosion, people said. A gas leak was what the papers had claimed, taking the life of everyone in the house. Though, the body of the child had never been found. There had never been such excitement in the Village.

  
Soon after, the strange looking people had started to come. Groups of them, and couples, and loners, they would stroll through the village and stand before the broken home and weep. At first, the village folk had thought them friends and family of the deceased, but after a month the flow of pilgrims had not stemmed; it was not possible for a small family to have known so many people. It was worst of all on Halloween. On the first anniversary, nearly a hundred people had stood before the small cottage and wept bitterly.

  
It was on that night the road had been re-christened: Pilgrims Lane.

  
The years would come and go, and, unerringly, so did the Pilgrims. After a time, the village folk had begun recognising the most frequent of them: A tall, slender man with a rough looking, scarred face, who would stand at the gate of the cottage for hours, never crying, as thought watching and waiting – or hoping – for some sign of life, and seeing none, he would head solemnly to the pub and get quietly drunk. The villagers had like him with his mild manners and calming voice. They hadn't seen him in a while.

  
There was the huge man, who at first had been alarming; with his wild hair and dark eyes, but who they had soon learnt was harmless. He would go to the pub first where he was well known,  and he favoured the ale. He would be merry and lively, at first. But eventually, as always, the tears would come, and he would stumble from the pub and down the Lane to the cottage and he would kneel in its overgrown front garden and cry and howl, a sound which broke even the coldest of hearts.

  
There was the older woman, with her tightly wound bun, and the severe lines of her face. Her visits were always short compared to the others. She would stand before the small cottage and weep silently; her face down-turned, as though embarrassed of her tears, or afraid of showing them to some unseen entity. She would stay no more than ten or fifteen minutes, and then she would vanish, as though she had never been there, as though she had never existed. It was on those nights the Cat would visit; sitting in the garden for hours, just staring up at the cottage. In the morning both would be gone.

  
There was the old man, with his odd sense of fashion and long white hair. He would stand away from the cottage and stare at it, or else on other nights he would enter it. He never once cried as he stood before the cottage, and his visits were always short. People had reported having seen him entering the graveyard afterwards, and it was that sacred ground he saved his tears for. He would stand before one of the older graves and sob terribly over it. He didn't visit as often as the others. In fact, he may not have been recognised in the times he did visit the Village if not for his odd appearance. It had been a while since his last visit, too.

  
There was the short, round, balding man. He was the least frequent of the visitors, though his visits were always memorable for no discernible reason. He would hover on the thresh-hold of the gate, as though afraid to enter and glance nervously around. He would cry every time; wailing and beating his breast and sobbing out the words “Forgive me,” over and over. When he left, it was as abruptly as the woman; gone in the blink of an eye. The village folk didn't like him very much; there was something distrustful in his face. He had not been seen for a long time and they were not displeased for it.

  
The most frequent visitor was the young man. His visits had not started until nearly twenty years after the accident. The elder residents claimed it was the ghost of the man who had died in the gas leak and others claimed it was the child who had not been found. He came often and stayed long. Mostly, he came alone and would stand gripping a gate post and stare longingly at the cottage. He would never cry on these visits. Sometimes, he would bring two friends; a man and a woman, and they would hold him as he sobbed heart-wrenchingly between them. He never came on Halloween, though. After several years he had started to bring a child with him; a small boy who looked remarkably like him, and together they would stand at the gate and he would talk to the young one for a long time as they both gazed up at the ruined building. It was these visits that interested the villagers the most.

  
The Pilgrims were the villagers favourite for gossip. They loved to speculate over the mystery of the destroyed cottage and the never ending flow of mourners to the broken home in spite of the time that had passed since the tragedy. On the nights when one of the Strangers would make their Pilgrimage to their small village, the pub would fill with gossiping people and for all the interest they paid to the foreigners, they never noticed the small groups of their own village folk sat amongst them who would smile sadly around at each other and raising their glasses, quietly toast “To the Potters.”

 


End file.
